


Dancing On My Own

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Alternative take on Stella's party, Angst, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, First Kiss, Humor, Intoxication, Jealousy, Lapdance, M/M, One Shot, Sexual Identity, Violence, canon homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 03:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9529652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: Handsome Bob knows how to play the game. Until he sees One Two and Stella dancing. It's all wild cards and whiskey from there.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: An alternative version of the events of Stella's party after Handsome dodges the five stretch. 
> 
> Inspired by listening to ‘Dancing on My Own’ by Robyn on repeat for two days straight. The result was not entirely what I expected. All characters, direct quotes and sexual inference belong to Guy Ritchie.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Bob?” One Two hisses agitatedly. 

Bob gives an easy line about blowing off steam after avoiding the clink with the boys. Slips into classic Handsome Lady Killer mode as One Two rants and threatens, all teeth and cheeky indifference. 

When Stella enters and snags One Two’s attention with her, Bob maintains the aesthetically effortless charm, declining the drink offer as the perfectly poised, slip of a thing floats on by. Even raises his hands in deference when One Two shoos him the other way like a temperamental puppy in need of a sharp kick. 

His face remains composed, statuesque in its neutrality as he watches their retreating forms. Anyone looking at a glance would see him casually inhabiting the wall space, but for a panic-inducing second, Bob feels pinned. 

“The fuck is his problem?” He mutters to himself. 

The dim lighting and thudding music allow him a moment of concealed doubt, schooled away immediately when a woman with legs longer than his rap sheet and lips as inviting as a siren’s call intimately invades his personal space as she brushes past. 

He doesn’t even need to touch her, hands balled into fists behind his back. Just the slightest tip of his head, lip curled at the corner into the suggestion of a smile, an unspoken proposition simmering in his eyes. 

The motions are mechanically executed, practised with the sociopathic ease of a seasoned deviant, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. She’s an easy mark and all the signs are there. Despite the confidence in her saunter, the too-excited glance over her shoulder and the way she dissolves into the waiting mass of her friends betrays his undeniable influence. 

Too young, too pretty by half. Bullseye. The kind of woman Handsome would’ve had kneeling in a hastily located back room, crooning around his cock in a minute flat. All for the façade, straining to keep himself hard as he thought of someone else. 

Bob swallows the thought, pushing it down with the uneasiness burbling about in his belly, burying it to embrace the sudden spike of impatient anger that strikes him like a punch in the gut. 

Fair play if he didn’t want to sweat out the sentencing, but One Two’s been dodging him since they played guess-who in the Speeler after his let off this morning. 

The mixed emotions are completely understandable. The confusion, the thinly veiled self-hatred, even the resentment. Hell, if One Two wanted to swing on him, Bob probably would’ve allowed it. But now that the dust has settled, he’ll be fucked if their interactions are going to go on like this. And if this isn’t the appropriate time to have a word, then tough. Tough is their game after all, and Bob can play the game better than anyone. 

He pushes off the wall confidently, resets his neck like a prize fighter before he’s in pursuit, passing the forgotten woman by like every other faceless conquest he’s ever had. 

Getting off the five stretch has made him brave. All balls and adrenaline-driven ambition. Handsome Bob knows exactly what he’s doing. 

*

“There’s a perfect storm if I’ve ever seen one.” Mumbles murmurs to himself, watching as Bob cuts determinedly through the room. 

Bob reminds him fleetingly of the twisters he’s seen on the telly when he gets like this. Reckless and devastatingly wonderful in his intensity, captivating your attention until it was all too late for you, my friend. 

Their Bob is a force to be reckoned with alright. And all the treadmill training in the world couldn’t get One Two away fast enough. Mumbles tips his drink in a despairing salute to his meat-headed best mate.

Now if only the thickest bloke in the room would stand his ground and meet the eye of the storm instead of detouring down any distraction with tits in his path. In the midst of One Two’s personal identity crisis, their beloved Bob is left to walk straight into the middle of an entirely different kind of natural disaster, while old Mumbles runs damage control. 

“I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” Mumbles groans outwardly, setting himself bodily in the entrance to the next room as Bob sets upon him, all keyed up bluster.

“Looking fit tonight, Mr. Handsome.” Mumbles greets, clapping a friendly hand on his mate’s shoulder and squeezing warmly, “What’s taking your pleasure on your first night as a free man?” 

“Not half bad yourself, Mr. Mumbles.” Bob declares with an appraising once-over that would certainly have caught Mumbles’ attention if he had a taste for sausage and beans, yes sir, “I’m in a mood for something a bit illicit.” 

His smile is wicked and the drag on the last word inclines that he’s in the manner to match, but his eyes betray the focus of his intentions, straining to scan the room beyond his friend’s coincidentally concealing frame. 

“How’s that bit of totty on the couch tickle your fancy?” Mumbles asks, pointing over Bob’s shoulder to the closest consenting distraction, even though he knows the tactic will prove futile. Such a shame really, the preening fairy has been visually stripping off Bob’s kit since he strolled into the shindig. Gay all the way for a shot at Handsome, Mumbles would bet. 

“I’ve got some business to straighten out first.” Bob deflects smoothly without even offering the poor sod a glance, and if that isn’t a metaphor and a half, Mumbles doesn’t know what is. Half a second later, Bob has the audacity to attempt the old slip and slide past his self-appointed minder. 

“Not that way, dear.” Mumbles intensifies his grip, hoping that is all he has to do to convey his concern, short of getting out some traffic cones and a stop sign. Bob doesn’t struggle, but against his better judgement looks Mumbles dead in the eye. The unconcealed frustration, blatantly apologetic, reflected back only assures Bob that he has hit the corner pocket, right where he wants it. 

“Let me through.” Bob says evenly, not to be dissuaded, “Please.” 

“You don’t want a hand in this game, mate. Sit it out.” Mumbles wishes he could come off harsher but lands on weary. Attempting to physically stop Bob is not in the realm of impossibility, but the blind persuasion of the heart always finds a way to get around you, don’t it? It pisses him off to no end that for an entirely capable human being, this situation renders him utterly useless, a pained spectator to a preventable incident. 

“I know how to play it. I can handle One Two.” Bob assures him, reassuring himself, removing the cautionary hand aside and pushing past. Mumbles goes with the motion, allowing him passage. He returns the discarded hand to run over his exasperated face. 

“I’ve no doubt, if he had a mind.” He sighs resignedly, folding his arms over his chest as Bob unconsciously mirrors his own feelings in his movement. He falters to a stop a metre away, stuck like a tragic tableau to watch the scene before him play out. 

The music is fast but everything else is painfully slow. Bob’s never been in a head on, but he imagines this, the awful suspended animation right before the trauma sinks in, must about sum it up. 

“We’ve got another job on. He’s hashing out the specs.” Mumbles must be beside him now, the splintered barricade still attempting to buffer the blow as the car hurtles on through it. 

“Right.” Bob manages, fighting to control his tone, “Don’t seem to be a great deal of talking going on.” 

It’s not the manner of their dancing that throws him - One-Two jauntily pea-cocking as Stella feigns the typical affected boredom of a posh bird untouched by impropriety but unable to avoid its allure. No grinding or gripping, no touching to speak of as they stick and move, nothing socially untoward. 

It’s in the way they orbit each other like planets, sizing each other up with the calculated precision of adversaries contemplating combat. There’s more than just a begrudging respect there, more than a tolerance built between business associates bound by a shared cause. 

The whip lash hits when Bob acknowledges that he can’t complete with what Stella represents – a taste of the good life so foreign yet so attainable by proximity that it’s intoxicating. 

As is the habit of those who have been forced to make their own way in the world, One Two’s always wanted what’s just outside of his grasp. And then there’s Bob, offering his ball and all, left to stand there and watch, transfixed blindly by his inability to accept what’s right in front of him. 

“Just business, ay.” Bob finds his voice finally, unable to prevent the bitterness that seeps in, “All above board until he fucks her, then?” 

He tears his eyes away, unable to stand it any longer, an unwanted observer of the age old ritual of destined lovers dancing around their own intimacy. 

“The attraction of alternate realities crossing paths is a strong one. Not a smart one, but then One Two’s never been particularly bright when it comes to birds.” Mumbles offers in consolation. His face is the picture of neutrality, but his receptiveness to his friend’s poorly concealed pain reflects vividly in his dark eyes, “It’s an enticing spark, but it’ll fizzle out.” 

“I’d ask what she has that I don’t, but I’d be fucking kidding myself.” Bob jokes with a laugh, feeling utterly pathetic in his attempt to lighten the mood. 

“Not so, Bob. You’re not lacking in any department.” Mumbles assures him with unshakeable certainty, “It’s Mr. One Two who is missing the functional components and, by extension, missing out.” 

“Like an interest in men?” Bob raises an eyebrow indelicately.

“An open mind, a pair of balls, general human compassion, I could go on.” Mumbles grins viciously as Bob barks a laugh, helpless in the face of such honesty. 

“Hmm…components. I’d like to believe that.” Bob replies ruefully, smiling in spite of himself. Offering the briefest amount of solace, Mumbles slips his arm around Bob’s shoulders with an affirming squeeze. Bob leans into the contact, hating himself for it, hating One Two and the whole wretched situation. 

“Oh you best believe, Mr. Handsome. Now let’s not squander your talents any further.” Mumbles tells him, manoeuvring him mercifully in the opposite direction, “You’ve been summoned and its best not to keep society’s queens in wait.” 

“At your service, Mr. Mumbles. Anything for the cause.” Bob tips his head, indulging in a final second of self-loathing before fixating his easy smile back on his face, allowing himself to be pulled from the room and wishing desperately that the feeling of despair would detach with his departure. 

“Should you ever get in a scrap, always keep moving, even if you’re dazed.” One Two had told him once, when he first got mixed up with him and Mumbles and the dangerous business. So with the damage done, Bob, still reeling, moves. 

*

If Mumbles doesn’t offer the courtesy of a warning when One Two ferrets him out for a debrief and happens to barge in on Handsome about to put the moves on slick to bag their newest mark, it may not be entirely unintentional. 

“So we’ve got another job on again.” One Two whispers with the hurried excitement of a little boy who has just discovered his own dick, too animated to be deemed appropriate at such a high society gathering. 

“Yeah?” Mumbles says distractedly, not ready to share in One Two’s rabidity. The combination of more money and a run in with the dangerous little accountant always gets him like this, hyped up and practically bursting out of his pants. 

“Same one as before.” One Two confirms, thick eyebrows slowly knitting together in dawning disappointment at Mumbles’ lack of enthusiasm. 

“Cor, it’s all going down in here. It’s the den of inequity, I tell you.” Mumbles replies, tone dripping with indecency as his focus remains fixated dead ahead. 

Slow on the uptake as ever, One Two finally follows the optical cue, catching the back end of Handsome Bob sliding coolly over the couch to nearly land in the lap of some prissy bloke nearly wetting himself at the prospect. 

Mumbles puts in the hard graft suppressing a snort as the Scot’s jaw slackens in surprise before snapping shut again. And is that a flicker of misplaced hunger that Mumbles spies there, submerging almost as quickly as it had surfaced? There’s something there alright. One Two looks torn between tearing out of the room and putting his fist through the nearest breakable object, furnishing or face, take your pick. 

If only he could channel his poorly concealed arousal and self-hatred into something more productive, Mumbles thinks wistfully. Into someone more conducive to their line of work. Fight or flight. What’s it going to be, blood? 

“I gotta get myself a breath of fresh air.” One Two stumbles out, unable to keep the heavy breathing out of his thick accent as he departs. 

Shaking his head in lamentation, Mumbles lets his lost cause stagger off and turns his attention back to Bob, who is entirely focused on introducing a riveted Bertie to the best of the Wild Bunch. He’s engaging, enigmatic and entirely oblivious to the attentions of anyone else, least of all the sole object of his desires developing a semi hard-on at a fleeting glimpse of his swaggering arse. 

“Right on schedule.” Mumbles sighs, wondering how many times two ships can pass each other in the night before colliding. Or hitting an iceberg entirely off course and going down in flames. 

As an emotionally stable yet confrontational kind of chap, Mumbles hopes for any form of resolution sooner rather than later, leaving the interaction to play out as he saunters off. Time to find his own underworld piece of pie for the night. He hopes with some amusement that he doesn’t run into One Two beating himself off in a closet somewhere. He’s had enough emotionally repressed run-ins for one night, thank you kindly. One thing he doesn’t have to worry about is Bob locking this one down. 

*

Bob knows exactly what he is doing until he doesn’t, and that’s just around the time that the drink kicks in. 

Bertie isn’t a bad sort of bloke, tailored down to his posh little toes, enraptured and perplexed by the insight and knowledge of legalise a member of the nefarious underclass can offer. 

“Do as your told.” Bob orders, more than a little chuffed at how Bertie melts under the command. Even if he is a little too prim around the edges, too camp to offer much intrigue, it’s been far too long since someone’s wanted him like this, wanted more than a leg over with the bad boy in the alley or back room. 

Returning the phone and glancing over his shoulder to find the entrance empty, Bob tells himself it has nothing to do with the unrequited affections of his partner in criminality. Just a longing for companionship with a slight sexual bent, nothing more. 

The hunger in his belly turns to thirst and that is when things start to go sideways. 

Amongst the conversational pleasantries, Bob remembers undoing a few more shirt buttons, teasingly exposing his chest, shifting his legs a little wider to accommodate an ache he wasn’t even aware was building there, grinding his ass into the couch just to feel the slick slide of the leather beneath it, the friction when the material grabs at him just right and oh so wrong as Bertie watches, entranced. 

He doesn’t remember the point where he leaves with Bertie’s mouth hanging agape mid-spiel and makes for the shelf of dark, expensive liquor calling his name. He’s not sure if it’s the course of the conversation or his fixation on Bertie’s mouth and the sudden, desperate need to uncover what other pretty, posh sounds it can make, but he’s ripping off the fancy label and downing a quarter of the contents as he staggers back. The liquor burns his throat but the need to bury the queasiness in his stomach is as consuming as the immediate head spin that follows. 

He faintly remembers the second he decided to throw it all into the wind, latching onto Bertie’s neck, pressing his tongue and his filthy words into his ear as the little queen squeals frantically before it all goes inevitably, mercilessly black. 

*

One Two has just downed his fifth straight drink in as many minutes, barely feeling the after burn. Whiskey is normally reserved for bank jobs and birthdays, but poison is poison at a high society party. He’s so consumed with trying to find some clarity at the bottom of the glass that he barely notices Stella slide up to him, the little minx. 

“Try’na get the jump on me then, eh?” One Two winks suggestively. 

“There is a situation arising in the common room you need to look in on.” She informs him with her usual coolness, not even pausing to put out her cigarette, before adding without a hint of mirth, “Surprise.” 

“It’s a bit early in the evening for propositions, Mrs. Baxter.” One Two leers, not following. To be fair, he often struggles to tell the difference between sarcasm and a statement when it comes to Stella, let alone being half cut. “You’ve not even got my liquored up yet. Besides, the host of this soiree might object.” 

“He’s objecting right now.” Stella informs him smoothly, her face maintaining its usual stone-like passivity, “He’s got his hands full with your friend.” 

Her flat tone and sharp smile contrast starkly with One Two’s eyes damn near falling out of his head. 

“Come on, now…”

“I’d hate to have to call the police.” 

“I’ll sort it.” 

He’s on the move before she can ash. 

“Enjoy.” Stella calls after his retreating form, smiling to herself before disappearing into the depths of the party again. She had forgot how much fun closet cases could be to unravel. 

*

“Not here, Bob, please.” Bertie pleads, voice breaking between terror and awe. 

“What’s wrong with ere?” Bob slurs, frowning as he messily straddles the other man’s lap, entrapping him with his thighs as he takes another draw from the alarmingly emptying bottle. 

“Let’s go somewhere a little-more private-” Bertie begins to protest before his complaints are silenced as Bob impatiently captures his mouth, all tongue and drunken insistence. 

The approving sounds coming from the party host are cut short as Bob stops abruptly to look at him, a disgruntled frown marring his prettily flushed features fleetingly before he begins to grind down, physically driving his point home with his arms flexing on the couch for support. 

“Tell me you don’t want this.” His smoky voice hitches as his hips rotate, Bertie reduced to a shaking mess underneath him. 

This is when One Two decides to make his typically well timed appearance. He nearly slams headfirst into the wall of the archway as he stumbles, courtesy of his usual finesse, upon his – his Bob gyrating down into some poof’s lap with an effortless execution that would have the Harris twins showering a week’s worth of their Russian rubles down over the spectacle just to witness the performance. 

It’s a complete sensory overload between Bob’s flushed face, sweat lathering his chest (did he open those buttons, or did Bertie?), the sinewy muscles of his arms working double time against the couch, the hypnotic undulation of his body and the undeniable moans rising from beneath. 

One Two snaps to when he spots the more than half empty bottle clutched firmly in Bob’s fist. 

Fuck. 

“Bob, please…” The words come from Bertie, not One Two, whose yet to pick up his well-structured jaw from the floor and whom they blessedly haven’t noticed amidst their shenanigans.

“What’s the matter, mate. You don’t want people to see us?” Bob’s laughter is unhinged. He stops his ministrations to pin the man below him with his stare, eyes feral, “Are you ashamed?”

“Out of…decency! My wife is at this party…” Bertie splutters helplessly. The poor bastard looks terrified. One Two can’t blame him. Reasoning don’t work with wild things. 

Bob steps up and off, shaky in his dismount as One Two slowly slips to his peripheral, moving to intervene. 

“Bob, enough!” He calls, hoping his presence would derail whatever twisted path this is heading down, but Bob doesn’t hear him, gaze unbroken in its intensity as Bertie attempts to disappear between the sofa cushions. 

“It’s me, isn’t it?” Bob reels back like he has been burnt as the realisation hits, “Can’t be seen cavorting with street trash at your fancy party, can you pet?” 

“No Bob, please – it’s just-” 

One Two would’ve had a perfectly poised tackle all in hand. Instead, Bertie grabs at Bob’s retreating arm. Bob reflexively snatches it away and loses his balance, swinging his arm out to support himself and smashing One Two in the side with the still grasped bottle. Moving into the blow, One Two still manages to catch him around the waist from behind, moving quickly to clinch him underneath the arms in submission. 

“Now, now, Bobski, not everyone is an exhibitionist like you. You’ve had your fun. Let’s get you home now, eh?” One Two grunts, slightly winded as Bob fights against him like a rabid cat, hissing and spitting. He even manages to smile almost apologetically at the ruffled poncey lawyer as he pulls them both from the room and out of the line of fire. He notices Stella move smoothly past him to chastise her still bewildered husband “for encouraging such poor behaviour”, but One Two dismisses it as the least of his problems. 

Somehow One Two manages to wrangle Bob out the side door into the deserted side passage outside. He wisely releases Bob much as one does a wounded animal, with a firm shove that projects his friend as far away as possible from his immediate person. Self-preservation first. 

“Quite the display you put on in there, Bob.” One Two winces, doubling over and using the space to examine the ribs that collected the brunt of the attempted extraction. 

Always keep your guard up, especially when you think you’ve got your opponent beat. One Two regrets not following his own advice when Bob comes back in a flurry, unable to get himself upright and his hands up in time as Bob lands a furious uppercut on his unprepared jaw. 

“Like you can talk!” Bob spits as One Two staggers back with the force of the blow. 

“You’ve been on the bag. Not bad for a cheap shot.” One Two grimaces as Bob seethes and paces gamely. Realising his mouth has got the best of him yet again, One Two raises his hands open-palmed in agreement but doesn’t attempt to advance any closer. He won’t make that mistake again. “Fair play. I deserve that.” 

“You’re not wrong.” Bob shoots back, suddenly alert and vicious as only the truly intoxicated can be when focused on a point of deep incensement. 

“Can’t say the same about the poor cocksucker back in there, though.” One Two intones, slowly edging towards Bob but mentally back pedalling when his eyes light up in anger, “I mean, fag… Mr. Baxter in there.” 

“Come off it, I was just pressing him about the informer.” Bob replies defensively, resuming his predatory pacing as he begins to get riled up again. 

"Didn't look like all you were going ter press him for..." One Two says with a disbelieving snort. In his drunker state, One Two is immediately sure it comes off as disgust rather than a joke when Bob returns fire with a less than subtle jab of his own.

“It was all for the job, just like you and the hostess having a private dance off in the back before.” 

“You saw that, did ya.” One Two mutters, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck uncomfortably. He begins to explain himself, and tries not to look at that too closely, or the way his stomach has suddenly turned sickly at the thick bitterness in Bob’s voice, “Look, I was just getting details-”

“About the next job, I know.” Bob finishes, stopping dead and spreading his arms in exasperation, “Point is, I stay out of your business, so what gives you the right to stick your nose in mine?” 

“Firstly, I’m offended you think so little of my consummate professionalism.” One Two attempts to joke, noting Bob’s less than thrilled reaction before pushing on anyway, “Secondly, Mrs. Baxter alerted me to the fact that the meet and greet with the Wild Bunch was getting a little too wild for her husband.” 

“Pansy.” Bob spits at the ground angrily. Though One Two can’t deny the poorly concealed hurt in the response, as exposed and fresh as an open-wound, he can’t help but laugh. 

“He looked torn between coming in his trousers or shitting em.” One Two admits with a grin, unable to help himself as ever despite the tension. 

The move is the right one. Bob snorts in a gesture that borders on affable in response. One Two reckons he must be finally beginning to catch his luck as Bob looks like beginning to run out of steam, bracing himself against the wall. Probably just catching his breath for round two, One Two thinks wearily, but can’t help but soften his stance a little as he watches Bob breathe deeply and attempt to refocus through the haze of booze, the fight and his no doubt spinning thoughts. If One Two’s head is this overcrowded after only a couple of drinks, Bob’s must be an absolutely safari. 

“They’re all the same. Look, but don’t touch.” Bob closes his eyes momentarily, head dropping back. One Two finds himself staring openly at the pale column of his neck, sleekly bathed in moonlight and sweat. More pressingly, Bob looks utterly spent, done with the entire mess of it all, defeated in a way that immediately sends up red flags, “He didn’t seem to mind when he was screwing me out before I ever glanced in his direction.” 

Against his better judgement, One Two moves to lean against the wall beside him in solidarity, nodding silently in support as a comfortable silence, the kind of easy quiet between companions that One Two didn’t even know the festivities of the evening had been lacking until he was near nestled amongst it, settles between them. 

“Should’ve been fucking clearer about what he wanted.” Bob mutters finally, dejection and exhausting colouring his cheeks. One Two notices him chewing on the inside of his drawn cheek in frustration. His lips are pursed with that trademark stubbornness, and even in the dark, One Two thinks they are obscenely pink, ridiculously plump like they’d been chewed through. He never thought it was fair that a man should be gifted with lips like that, though he’d never mention it aloud. 

“Not sure that would hold up in court.” One Two tries, needing to break the silence and escape his own spiralling thoughts. Its continuation assures him that, as always, his response is entirely left of correct. 

One Two frowns in concentration, working past the buzz of the adrenaline and the altercation, staring at where he imagines the skyline must be amid the dark night sky and the industrial smog. Squints, cause there has to be a silver lining somewhere in this absolute crock of shite situation and he knows he’s going to have to search for it. This touchy feely crap was more Mumbles’ area of expertise than his, but given it is their first proper communication since their little run in before Bob got off, he ploughs on determinedly. If Bob notices him falter, he doesn’t call him on it, which One Two is thankful for.

“I mean - I’m not sure he knew what you were dealing, Bob.” One Two says without making eye-contact, “Honestly, you can be a bit of a wild card!”

Bob’s head snaps sideways, eyes blazing intently but One Two remains still, even if he isn’t sure if Bob is going to land one on him again. He can take it on the chin this time. 

“This isn’t a game, One Two.” Bob grits out, looking for all the world like he wants to shake some sense into him. He looks like he’s about to elaborate, but instead pushes unsteadily off the wall, conceding. “Just forget it, alright? You wouldn’t get it.”

One Two catches Bob’s wrist, anchoring him back. Bob’s eyes widen, startled, and One Two’s even surprised himself as his sudden unwillingness to relent.

“Hold on, wait a minute now. You know I'm no good at this stuff.” One Two insists, taking a second to compose himself under the intensity of Bob’s stare. Poor fucking Bertie, he’s only a man after all. Better men, like One Two, sweat under the scrutiny of those ridiculously intense, bright eyes. 

They are slightly too close now for his usual range of comfort, but Bob’s wrist is warm under his clammy hand. Like every clansman before him, he refuses to concede any ground, even if the battle might not be his to win. 

“What I mean to say is, not everyone is as assertive as you.” One Two soldiers on, “Confident fella like you, jumping in his lap. Could be a slight overwhelming for someone of his…sexual standing.” 

Bob’s warm breath is his only response. All his restraint in waiting One Two out is channelled into its evenness. One Two is almost sure something shifts between them but he can’t place it, an undercurrent barely noticeable in the dark, but he charges on blindly. 

“Not to say he hasn’t been in these… situations before. For fuck’s sake, he landed Stella somehow… the actual how is still beyond me…” The growl emanating from the back of Bob’s throat has One Two more than startled and struggling to find solid footing, “But he may not be used to this kind of attention from someone…” 

“Gay?” Bob ends curtly. 

“Attractive.” One Two manages bravely as Bob exhales loudly, does his best not to falter.

“Mr. Bax – Bertie probably was just a bit blindsided and didn’t know how to tell you…” 

“That he thought he wanted it, but he didn’t.” Bob cuts in, almost breathless in his desperation to make One Two see his side, “I wasn’t going to mount him on top of the caviar tray, alright? And I know you think it’s disgusting, but I like to get my rocks off too. I’ve got needs to be tended to, and I can be subtle and proper, but if you don’t want it, have some balls and come out with it!” 

Things are a little more heated now. Bob’s in his face, or as much as he can be being a foot shorter, breath coming out hard, boxing him in with his wiry frame. One Two wants to start running, to scrap and put as much distance as he can between him and this dangerous line of conversation as he can muster. 

But Bob is looking for a confrontation. And it’s more than just Bertie, more than this stupid night and this stupid party and a dance between mates. He’s look for a reason to keep on fighting and fucking and being and for once, One Two can’t make tracks, doesn't want to if he's honest with himself. 

“He never said he didn’t want it.” One Two mutters, lifting his head to look Bob in the eye. His throat feels like the remnants of an ash tray, and he’s sweating so he must be taking a turn and did Cookie spike his drink? He feels kind of woozy all of a sudden. 

“What did you say to me?” Bob demands, needing to hear it properly, pushing, probing. 

Then One Two snaps, grabs his shirt, pulling him within striking range because Bob looks like he’s drifting out of consciousness, drifting away from him and he doesn’t know how to make the stupid git see sense. 

“Ya bastard, he never said he didn’t want it, he just didn’t know how he wanted it!” One Two shouts finally. 

And fuck, he’s crushed their faces together, not for a Glasgow kiss but…are they necking on? Bob’s all teeth and whiskey and insistent need as One Two just tries to hold on, overwhelmed with the unbearable wrongness and hotness of it all. 

When the sensation becomes too much, One Two shoves away. Bob’s lips are glistening with a filthy grin so wide its splitting his face in half as One Two stands in the middle of the empty lane reeling like he’s punch drunk, with his cock mid salute, breathing hard as he attempts to get his bearings. 

“Are you happy, Handsome?” One Two does his damn best not to come off sounding hysterical, but still ends up shouting, “Did you get what you wanted? I fucking did, and now I don’t know whether I need a wank, or a bottle of scotch or to reassess my fucking childhood on a long couch, so you can imagine how that conflicted little fairy must feel!” 

“Do you need a hand there, One Two?” Bob grins stupidly, like the Cheshire Cat that got the cream of the fucking crop, “There’s more where that came from.” 

One Two is torn between kicking the crap out of him and the urge to see what more than just kissing a bloke feels like. 

“More? Oh fuck me sideways with a streetlamp.” One Two groans, head in his hands. 

A slow round of applause turns both of their attentions to the doorway of the forgotten party. 

“Well done on finally making a go of it, lads!” Mumbles calls, beaming proudly, “Best to both of you. And I won’t tell the chaps…. till you’re ready.” 

“What the fuck is going on?” One Two yells out in response. 

"Car's ready. Let's get out of here ay?" Mumbles calls before disappearing back through the doorway. 

“Cheers Mumbles!” Bob smiles, before turning back to One Two. "Let's get you back to the Speeler - this might go down easier on more familiar territory without our most recent sexual pursuits present?" 

One Two doesn't have the words but nods hard, watching helplessly as Bob begins to head towards the house. His head is exploding. He has to say something. 

“Bob-I...”

Bob spins almost gracefully (how he manages that in trainers, One Two will never know - may its a gay thing - maybe he'll understand it soon cause he's g-oh god) and strides back to him, trapping One Two’s head in his hands and laying one on him for all he’s worth, silencing the thoughts and the hesitancy and the urge to run and narrowing it all down to the obscenely great taste of second hand smoke, sweat and Bob which as far as One Two is concerned is the closest that he ever gets to home.

One Two is panting when he pulls off. Bob is much more composed, eyeing him seriously. 

“You may not be gay, but I am. Don’t make me rethink this.” 

One Two reels back, tipsy with the headiness of it, before shaking it off to form his best attempt at his usual lop-sided grin that spells trouble front and back.

Bob is already walking away with a shit-eating grin on his face when One Two shakes his head and takes up a jog, finally putting all those hard earned miles to good use following the only mate, or bloke, or person that matters right now. He's always been a gambling man and it's now or never, all cards on the table. 

“Yessir, Handsome, sir.” One Two all but wolf-whistles, shadowing him as they slide through the party and out into the night.

Bob refuses to glance back to acknowledge him, pushing on. Remembers his feet, keeps on moving forward, unable to believe his luck. 

Even when Handsome doesn’t know what he’s doing, he always gets exactly what he wants.


End file.
